Yellow
by pintoxpony
Summary: Before his life turned to varying shades of gray, his favorite color had always been yellow. HouseCuddy. RomanceAngstFluff. OneShot.


**A/N **This just came to me while I was listening to my iPod (which is now broken, so don't be expecting anymore random one-shots anytime soon). Creative criticism is love, flames are not; don't like it, don't read it, cuz unless you have help, I don't wanna hear it. Mm'k? Mm'k.

-Majikk

**Title: **Yellow

**Author: **Majikk

**Pairing: **HouseCuddy

**Rating: **PG

**Spoilers: **Three Stories, Forever, Who's Your Daddy

**Style: **Songfic/Paragraph

**Song: **Yellow by Coldplay

**Genre: **RomanceAngstFluff

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Don't sue!

**Summary: **His favorite color, before his life had turned to varying shades of gray, had been yellow. How she returned the sunshine to his life. HouseCuddy.

**Yellow**

Before the infarction, before Stacy, before his world was turned upside-down, his favorite color had been yellow. It reminded him of the sunshine that warmed his skin when he jogged through the park, of the sand in his home in Egypt where he had made his first (and, coincidentally, his last) real childhood friend (whom he left behind when his father was re-assigned to another military base). It reminded him of the yellow roses his mother grew in the backyard in each and every one of their new houses ("To make it more homey," she had said, when he asked her why. Though he had never told her, he liked the roses. They were there everytime, offering a consistency that he was deprived of).

When he met Stacy, she was wearing a yellow sun-hat with a yellow blouse and yellow flip-flops. The brunette had smiled flirtatiously at him from across the bar where she stood with, presumably, some girlfriends; she wore sunglasses, even though outside the sun was setting for early evening and she hardly needed them indoors. One drink led to one horrible date that (somehow) led to one single apartment that led to one flaky relationship that led to one infarction that led to _a lot_ of pain.

He wasn't surprised when Stacy left, but the hurt was evident. Their relationship had been floundering long before the infarction, and had offered the final blow. After that, yellow reminded him of betrayal. The night that Stacy left, House flipped through a dusty old medical journal and lifted out a pressed yellow rose. He threw it into the fire and turned away as the flames blazed up, and then died back down. That same night he called Lisa, because she, at the time, had been his only friend. She came over with some popcorn and a James Bond movie wearing jean shorts and a yellow and white striped tank top. He didn't talk to her all night. He ignored her and he flashed her irritated, angry glares, but she never left. Just rested her head against the back of the couch, her feet propped on the coffee table, until House fell asleep. Then she'd covered him with whatever throw was draped over the armrest of the sofa, turned off the lights, and slipped out the door, locking it behind her.

He called Lisa a lot after that. Even after he'd started calling her Dr. Cuddy, though less frequently. She always came, and she always stayed; no matter how angry, how annoyed, how upset he was, she _always _stayed. And then the day that he called her Cuddy at work, that simple two-syllable name, without Dr., a few days into his case on Rebecca Adler, the tapewormy kindergarten teacher, she had come over wearing a yellow sun-dress and they watched a movie and talked all night until they fell asleep on his couch, bundled beneath the same throw she had tossed unceremoniously over his gruff frame the night Stacy had left. That, he mused, was when the yellow had peeked back into his life.

**Look at the stars**

**Look how they shine for you**

**And everything you do**

**They were all yellow**

When he found out she was trying to get pregnant, he felt an odd feeling of jealousy sweep over him quickly, like the tide pulled by the moon. He doused it out quickly and panicked, (though on the surface he remained cool and cranky) worried that his feelings for one of his closest friends, for his sparring partner, for the woman that always stayed, were going deeper than he had intended. He panicked because he was afraid he would give it all up for her, even though he knew that love was not _meant _to last. He had loved and lost; that was the deeper meaning. That was how it was supposed to be.

So when she came to his office, nervous and jittery and skittish, and when he knew what she was going to ask, the denial sharp in his mind, he couldn't find it within himself to risk losing the beautiful thing he had with this woman. Couldn't muster up the strength to help her. She didn't come over that night, and he spent the sleepless evening verbally beating himself. When he ran out of bad things to call himself, he started the list over.

The next night she came over with a stack of files and no movie. They ended up watching Goldeneye (he selected randomly from his collection), and when she fell asleep on his couch, he threw the files away and she didn't ask where they were in the morning, just left silently (but he knew she would be back. She left a trail of yellow in her wake).

**I came along**

**I wrote a song for you**

**And all the things you do**

**And it was called yellow**

**So then I took my turn**

**What a thing to've done**

**And it was all yellow**

It was on a night that Cuddy was out on a date that something in House finally clicked, and before he knew it, he was standing before her empty home. He let himself in with the key she forgot (or never bothered) to move, beneath the flower pot, and settled down on her couch to wait.

She came in quietly (alone), and didn't turn on the lights. She crept down the hallway to her bedroom and stripped out of her black dress and heels and jewellery, and let her hair down out of its clip. Carefully, silently, she pulled on white pajama pants and a white tank top and climbed into bed soundlessly, not bothering to remove her make-up (her mascara had leaked down her cheeks with her tears). She didn't sound surprised when House sat on the bed, leaned down, and wrapped his arms around her. She did, however, breathe an audible sigh of relief.

"Love you," he murmured into her hair, and she nodded and sniffed, wiping her hand over her cheek.

"Good," she replied, and he smiled and settled down next to her, pulling the yellow duvet up to his chin.

**You're still...**

**Oh, yeah, you're still in pose.**

**Turn it in to something beautiful.**

**You know, you know I love you so.**

**You know I love you so.**


End file.
